


Truth

by MeeMaw



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And yet, F/M, HERE I AM, Identity Reveal, R Plus L Equals J, fic nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-13
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-16 02:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18085979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeeMaw/pseuds/MeeMaw
Summary: It was easier that way, his silence and the unseen chasm between them, at least she knew that if he never spoke, it won’t be his words that hurt her and if she never went too close, he could not pain her by pulling away.





	Truth

Daenerys and Jon had never discussed their origins, not since their first meeting in the throne room at Dragonstone. However, despite Jorah and Ser Barristan’s assurances, the presumed actions of her older brother had gnawed at her whenever she thought of the North and how she’d be received there.

_You’re the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen …._

Her eyes had not left the sight of Jon as the three-eyed-raven unraveled the missing pieces of the puzzle surrounding her own House, parts she hadn’t known existed. There was relief in knowing that her brother had been honorable with Lady Lyanna. And then, the first of many tremors rocked her world as she watched Jon storm out. Fingers pressed against her brows, she looked up at the young Stark lord. “What is the purpose of this _now_?” her voice ripe with defeat and daze, “The enemy is at our door and you have thrown him into a darkened abyss.”

“He needed to know the truth.” The boy with lifeless eyes and stoic face offered.

She looked around; to assess the repercussions of what had just been revealed. The ever-pragmatic Tyrion and Sansa had arrived at similar conclusions but understandably stood at opposite ends, Arya was probably as confused as her and Samwell Tarly seemed apologetic and gathered the documents he’d purloined from the Citadel, to bring to her. She stopped him in his path and went after Jon.

 

 

She had never seen Jon look so broken, not at the ship when he blamed himself for Viserion’s death, not even when he embraced death fighting the undead beyond the Wall. In her eyes, he was an undefeatable warrior and nothing, she had imagined, could ever break him.

“Jon” she whispered, “look at me”. His eyes only fluttered, and he hid his soul behind an unreadable mask of anonymity. They only exchanged silence between them until Arya arrived and Daenerys realized where she was. The Crypts were Stark’s place, where the Winter Kings rested, where Jon’s _mother_ rested. Even with the last of her blood standing next to her, she felt like an outsider and in that moment, Daenerys resigned herself to fate, realizing that it was perhaps her destiny to forever remain an outsider, no matter where she went.

 

 

Jon turned himself into the ghost of Winterfell, people saw him when he wanted to be seen and he disappeared when he wished. He spoke when necessary, no one saw him dine or sup and the men stayed away when he went into the yards to practice sword. Another Ghost and her dragons kept her company and there was an irony in knowing that she may have been rejected by the last living Targaryen but not his direwolf. Perhaps it was only the beasts who truly understood her.

 

 

One particularly stormy night, long after the castle had gone quiet and dark, Daenerys heard a soft knock and before she could answer, the door creaked open and Jon finally came to her. She watched him with disquiet as he removed his cloak and boots and stretched himself next to her. He still wore his leather gambeson in hopes of shielding himself from the unknown. His stony gaze found a crack in the grey ceiling and stared at it while her eyes traced the lines of misery and darkness around his unquiet eyes. Daenerys contemplated saying something to him, anything at all; words had left her and she was greeted by his half-lidded eyes and soft snores. She fell asleep finding comfort in the rise and fall of his chest. He had left before she could arise but the musky scent of his leathers and the winter chill he had left behind were enough to remind her the next day that she wasn’t going insane and that Jon had truly been there.

She waited for him for the second night and her heart lurched to her throat when he didn’t arrive until the Hour of the Wolf. With a tome in her lap, she fell asleep on the armchair, stray hair falling in soft curls over her eyes, veiling the pained uncertainty that darkened all of her waking hours. His presence made her feel safe in a way her two armies and two dragons didn’t. She resented it, that she had allowed him to control her fate and her heart but had come to accept it all the same. She woke up covered in furs, to a slept-in side on her bed and exhaled a troubled breath she had been holding all night.

Jon returned the following night and removed his leathers, covering himself in the bed furs Daenerys had left on _his_ side of the bed. Once again, he searched for the crack in the ceiling and wordlessly slipped into his world of nightmares and ghosts whose faces he neither knew nor could imagine. She stared at him for a time, eyes scouting the bruised skin and the marred fist – he’d been training with the Dothraki and the freefolk and looked half a beast in the yards.

The fourth night when he returned, he was received with an uncompromising glare, and a wooden tub filled with warm bath resting in front on the hearth and a pile of his clothes neatly folded and set aside. When Jon turned on his heels and reached for the door, Daenerys clenched her fists, furiously digging the crescents of nails in her own flesh to keep herself from lashing out, from telling him that she didn’t have a part any of it, that she was truly happy she didn’t have to be the last of her name, that she did not deserve the pain of rejection -- not from _him_.

He bolted the door with a soft click and shedding his armor and all of his clothes and the shame he hid underneath it all, he stepped inside the tub. He winced at the unbearable heat of the water but there was little and less that went unnoticed from her when it came to him. She reached for a pail of cold water and he promptly took it from her hands with an annoyed huff of breath that fled his parted lips. She lowered herself near the rim and gently washed his hair and rubbed his skin with a muslin cloth and healing salts and oils till she felt the knots of his muscles and the anxiety of his chest slackening under her touch. She dried his hair when his eyes became heavy and wordlessly leaving him with some clean water and a large sheet of linen to cover himself, she retired to the inner chambers where she slept.

She felt his warmth before she heard his footsteps, too afraid to meet his gaze, petrified that she’d snap that last silken thread that held them both together, she tightly shut her eyes and remained confined to one corner of the bed. It was easier that way, his silence and the unseen chasm between them, at least she knew that if he never spoke, it won’t be his words that hurt her and if she never went too close, he could not pain her by pulling away.

Wrapped in only the linen cloth she had left out, his hair falling limp over his shoulders, Jon kneeled on the flagstones, pried her eyes with a soft caress of his thumb.

“Jon” she questioned, her elbow firmly curled under her head, eyes flaccid with fear like they had been every day since Bran had spoken, “do you want something?”

 He blinked, taking her in his eyes he whispered with certainty, “Aye, I do. I need you.”

“You cannot even bear to look at me.” She complained.

“You haven’t left my thoughts for a heartbeat.” He confessed, “I’m chasing shadows in the dark, tracing the path my life has not taken. I feared you’d hate me for being the very cause of every awful thing that has ever happened to you.”

“It’s not true, none of it. The downfall of our House,” she scoffed bitterly, “my father’s madness saw to it long before _Harrenhal_.” She tried to comfort him.

“I should have found you, come to _you_ instead of going to that wretched Wall.” Jon’s agony was palpable.

“Who knew I’d not be safe with my own brother?” She sighed. “And there’s nothing we can do about _any_ of it now.”

Jon’s silence was deafening and she knew that it was futile, only time would bring him to accept his new found place in the world. Leaving behind the only fabric that covered him, Jon joined her in the bed and his nimble fingers began undressing her as she gasped at the sudden intrusion of his soft lips on her neck. He sucked her skin between his lips and nipped it with his teeth, marking her anew and she hoped this time he’d remember what they truly meant to each other.

It seemed like a long time since they had lain together. Jon took his time feeling the softness of her skin under the touch of his fingers, he spread her and feasted on the tang of her juices on his tongue and the sweetness of her mouth when her lips melted against his, he relished the incomparable joy of hearing her moans when she moved in rhythm to match his own.

Daenerys reached up, tracing a line above his lips with her finger, bringing his face to her to kiss his eyes, cheeks, and lips, with her eyes full of love and hope, she smiled. She trailed her fingers, moving down the muscles of his shoulders, to the scars above his chest and ribs, lower down, till she found the base of his shaft that had been sheathed inside her. Moving her fingers from his turgid length, she stroked and circled the apex of her woman’s part as Jon moved back and forth in slow, long strokes. Biting her lip, she shuddered and cried out his name in throes of pleasure making Jon thrust himself harder and deeper, over and over, until his crisis came upon him.

They breathed fervently onto each other’s skin and laid there for what seemed like an eternity. When he buried his face in the silver hair strewn in the crook of her neck, a river of tears flowed down her cheeks and merged in an ocean of his. Softly kissing his crown, Daenerys caressed his hair with her blunt fingertips and whispered, “Let go, Jon. Let go, my love. We are both home.”

*~*~*


End file.
